Wicked Wolf, Wanton Witch

by Celia Kyle

  Wicked Wolf, Wanton Witch

  Celia Kyle

  Rachel Riordan is not a lawyer. Not even on TV. She's a secretary, and not a very good one at that. But when Grant Hemming, President of Hemming Industries, asks her to look over a contract, she does as she's told. Since, in addition to signing her paychecks, he's superhot.

  In between reading clauses and sharing kisses, several things come to light:

  She's a witch. (They happen to be hated by the werewolves.)

  He's a werewolf. (Remember, they hate the witches.)

  They're mates. (Talk about awkward.)

  And, oh, vampires want them both dead. Isn't that just like them?

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement of the copyright of this work.

  WICKED WOLF, WANTON WITCH

  Shades of Naughty Collection

  Copyright © 2013 CELIA KYLE

  Cover art by Amanda Kelsey

  Edited by Trinity Scott

  ISBN: 978-1-936387-59-5

  All Romance eBooks, LLC Palm Harbor, Florida 34684

  www.allromanceebooks.com

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever with out written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First All Romance eBooks publication: May 2013

  Chapter One

  All three representatives of Baker, Slate & Cromwell looked as if they stared death in the eye.

  In a way, they were.

  The lawyers, a group of supposedly unbiased humans, wanted Grant Hemming’s pack gone. Oh, he doubted the extermination of the Hemming pack was their idea, but he and his wolves would be extinct regardless of their intentions.

  The vamps were up to something.

  The pages in his hand still held the heavy, burnt scent of recent printing. The stench assaulted his sensitive nose and his wolf internally sneezed in an attempt to clear the stink. There were other fragrances and sounds within the conference room on which he needed to focus.

  Like the sour tang of fear that clung to the man at his right. Or the musk of worry that draped over the woman to his left. He could also hear the low chatter of teeth emanating from the third man in the room.

  At first glance, the documents spread before him appeared to contain exactly what had been discussed, yet…

  Why the fear?

  Why had the partners in the law firm sent peons instead of attending the important meeting themselves?

  Grant shuffled the sheaf of paper together into a thin stack and placed it on the long, cherry wood conference table. He scanned the summary page the firm had prepared, searching for anything that would point to the reason for the humans’ anxiety.

  The man at his right dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, wiping away the accumulated sweat. “Is everything in order, Mr. Hemming? It’s essentially the same agreement your father had with Lucre Holdings.”

  Essentially. He just bet.

  “It appears to be.” And appearances can be deceiving.

  The woman at his left presented him with a pen. The instrument vibrated in her trembling hand. “Would you like to go ahead and sign, sir?”

  Grant had remained successful, and more importantly alive, over his two hundred years by listening to his gut, and he wasn’t about to dismiss the warning feelings now. He paused a moment and looked out the floor-to-ceiling window to enjoy the evening sunset, the various shades of yellow, orange and purple that decorated the skyline. What would the night hold if he refused?

  “Actually, I’d like to look this over tonight. I’ll call Baker in the morning if I have any questions and I’ll meet with the Lucre representatives tomorrow evening.” He pushed away from the table and rose. The human at his right reached for the pages, and Grant snatched them from the table. “You wouldn’t have a problem with me taking the time to review them, would you? Baker has spent years telling me that I shouldn’t sign a contract without reading it first.”

  The stench of panic battered at his senses, the room filling with the odor until he wasn’t sure he could stand to remain any longer. “N-n-no, sir.”

  The wolf paced within him, salivating at the thought of taking the weak, pesky humans down. They were trying to trick him in some way, lead him down a treacherous path that could harm the pack. The beast ached with the need to destroy the threat.

  Had it not been for the fact that they were human, Grant would have let the wolf rule him. Happily.

  “Good.” He strode from the room, dispensing with any pleasantries. If he discovered his concern was unwarranted, he’d have his secretary send them his apologies and a gift basket.

  But, based on his suspicions, he’d be giving them a quick visit to hell instead.

  Striding from the conference room, he took the first breath of fear-free air he’d had in an hour.

  The moment he stepped across the threshold one of his sentinels, Hagan, was at his side, matching him step for step. “Alpha.”

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Sir?” The wolf’s booted feet thumped over the office’s carpeted floor, the sound muffled by the plush surface.

  Ever ready for conflict, Hagan was dressed in his typical uniform of black leathers and combat boots. He stood out like a sore thumb wherever they traveled, especially the headquarters of Hemming Industries, but the first time Grant had questioned him on his chosen attire, the larger wolf had quieted him with a few words.

  “I can look pretty, and you can be dead. Or I can carry my own personal army beneath the leather. Pick one.”

  Grant had voted for the leather. Just because the Hemming pack followed the old laws and refrained from dishonorable challenges, the rest of the world did not.

  Which made sentinels an unfortunate necessity.

  Pushing open the doors to his office, he went straight for his massive desk and slapped the contract onto the shining surface. The soft click of the doors signaled that he was alone with his sentinel, and he slumped into his cushioned chair.

  Grant ran a hand through his hair, worries over the future of the pack rolling through his mind. “I need you to find me a lawyer.”

  “We have a lawyer. Several.”

  He glared at Hagan. “I need one that isn’t going to bend over and take it if offered enough money.”

  The other wolf raised a single brow. “I thought we had that, already. We’ve been using the Baker firm for centuries. What’s changed?”

  “Damn it, Hagan.” He hated being challenged.

  “Damn it, Grant,” the man replied in a droll voice.

  “You’re an ass.”

  “And until someone gets me outta my spot, I have that pleasure.” Hagan smirked. “So, what the fuck has changed?” His sentinel flopped onto a nearby couch without waiting for an invitation and then he dug into his jacket until he raised a cigarette in triumph. “Knew I had one left.”

  “Your mate is gonna kick your ass when you get home.” Grant focused on the contract before him.

  “Ah, the joy of a mate.” Hagan flicked his lighter and ignited the cigarette. “She only grumbles until I bend her over…”

  The alpha rolled his eyes. “Go find me a lawyer, Hagan.”

  “You still haven’t told me why.” The cherry of the cigarette burned bright.

  “Because it appears the vamps are trying to destroy us, and they’re using this century’s contract to do it.”

  * * *

  The last of the secretarial pool had left half an hour before and Rac
hel enjoyed the bit of quiet. Especially since it let her focus on everything she hadn’t gotten done earlier in the day. Because she was slow. Slooowww. God had not made her to be a secretary. Ever.

  She checked over the calendar on her screen and shot off a few emails, wincing as she realized she was notifying her bosses a smidge late about their eight A.M. meeting. Oops.

  The ringing of her phone snagged her attention and she picked it up without checking the caller I.D. “Hemming Industries, Rachel speaking, how can I help you?”

  “Rachel, dahling…”

  She rolled her eyes. “Heya, Gigi.”

  “You’re still at work.”

  Rachel snorted. “Since you called my office line, I think it’d be obvious. What’s up?” She shot off another email. Another wince. She was supposed to have responded to that one by noon.

  Oops. Again.

  “So, we’re having a thing on Friday. You, me and a pitcher or five of margaritas. Oh, and Pitch Perfect. We can pretend we’re a cappella singers and join in. It will be a-ca-awesome!” Gigi loved that movie way too much. Way.

  “Yes on getting together and the movie. No on the margaritas.”

  Gigi’s heavy sigh came across the line. “Because it’s too many points or whatever. I don’t understand why you’re doing this whole dieting thing.”

  “It’s not a diet—”

  “It’s a lifestyle. But why? Your doctor said you’re a perfectly healthy fat chick.”

  “I know, but…” But her butt was starting to touch the arms on her office chair and her boobs were busting out of her tops. The things weren’t even low cut, but blam there was the boobage. “I’d just like to trim down a little.”

  Or, at least enough for a guy to look at her more than once. She didn’t expect drooling, but…

  “I disagree, but I don’t want to argue. So, Friday. I’ll drink margaritas and you’ll have rum and diet soda. You can swing that, right?”

  Sometimes, even if the woman griped about Rachel’s choices, she loved easygoing Gigi. “Yup. It’s a deal. I’ll even bring along something yummy for dinner and dessert.”

  “The pineapple angel food cake thingie? That’s, like, the only thing I dig.”

  Rachel snorted. “Yeah, I’ll bring that along.” Movement in her peripheral vision grabbed her attention and she turned her head to find the biggest man she’d ever seen, clad in black leather, standing outside her cubicle. “Uh, Gigi, gotta cut it short. Someone just showed up.”

  Someone ginormous and very, hugely, almost pee-her-panties scary.

  Rachel stared at the man before her, gaze traveling up his body (and up and up and…) until she finally settled on his face.

  Not waiting for her friend to acknowledge her words, she dropped the handset into the cradle and gave the man her attention. She’d seen him around the office, trailing after the president of the company, and the sight of him always sent a tiny sliver of fear racing down her spine.

  “Mr. Hemming needs your assistance with a contract. Follow me.”

  She gulped. Look, more fear. Even She-Ra would have been scared of this guy. “I’m not a lawyer.”

  “Today you are.” His voice was deep and gravelly. Probably from the cigarette dangling from his lips. It most certainly was not because he might be a werewolf. She’d heard rumors, and her Great Aunt Petunia had clued her in on their characteristics.

  “Let’s go,” he grumbled around his smoke.

  Didn’t he realize that Hemming Industries had a strict no-smoking policy? Even if the person had a habit before being hired, they were soon browbeaten into giving up the cancer sticks. Then again, he was probably too big and scary for anyone to nag him.

  “But, I’m seriously, really not a lawyer. And it’s past six. I’m just on my way out—”

  She was hungry, damn it. She had a date with some Chubby Hubby ice cream and a pepperoni pizza. In that order. Didn’t the guy realize that it was her order out slash cheat day? Once a month, she splurged and got take-out. With money being tight since she sent anything left over after bills to Great Aunt Petunia to help the woman get by, she cherished these days. Getting to toss her not a diet diet out the window was just a bonus. A big one.

  A growl filled the air. An honest to God growl. And the man rolled his eyes. She’d seen the guy around the office, always walking two steps behind Mr. Hemming. Since Grant Hemming was the company’s president and one of the top ten richest men in the world, she wasn’t surprised that he had some sort of scary-as-hell, maybe-werewolf bodyguard.

  She just hadn’t expected the man to show up in her cubicle. Ever.

  “I can’t—”

  The man, Hagan from what she recalled, took a drag then dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling, blowing the pale smoke into the air. “Look, Miss Riordan, I know that you normally don’t handle these types of situations—”

  “Never. I’m not a lawyer, so I’ve never pretended to be one. Not even on TV. I’m a secretary and only half-way decent, at that.” She really didn’t want to do whatever it was Hagan needed. What if she screwed up? She needed her job. Needed, needed with a capital need. Great Aunt Petunia couldn’t survive on her fixed income and depended on what Rachel sent along.

  Another growl, deeper than before, and his gaze focused on her. Did his brown eyes have a hint of amber? She hadn’t noticed that before. Then again, he was gigantic, and it’d taken her a minute to get past his massive size when he’d first stepped into her six-foot-by-six-foot space. He looked to be taller than her cubicle was wide.

  And very werewolf-y.

  She should have never taken this job.

  “Are you a law student or not?”

  Rachel furrowed her brow. “Well, yes. I mean, I was. I haven’t taken a class in a while, but—”

  “Then, let’s go.” A large hand wrapped around her bicep and tugged her from her square haven.

  “Hey! Just because you’re bigger than me doesn’t mean—”

  “Yes, amazingly enough, it does. Let’s go.” He tugged again, and she realized that resistance was futile. She would be assimilated, er, dragged along against her will.

  With a sigh, she followed along, allowing the man to lead her through the hamster-like trail that was the general secretarial pool. He led her down the twisting and turning path to the elevator, still keeping his grip in place during their ride to the top floor.

  Hagan merely nodded at the secretary outside what she assumed was Mr. Hemming’s office doors and then entered the space, not even bothering to knock.

  “That’s right, cancel the—” Mr. Hemming’s attention turned to her for a brief moment, and he stiffened and paused in the middle of his sentence. “Cancel tonight’s picnic. I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up. Reschedule for Friday.” Without bothering to say good-bye, he hung up on the other speaker and gave them his entire focus. “Hagan?”

  Was he growling too? Good lord, the eighth richest man in the world was probably a werewolf. She’d stumbled into an amber-colored nightmare of ginormous proportions. It was one thing if it’d been a single guy, but the president of the company… If the head of Hemming Industries was wolf-tastic, who knew how many he employed.

  Wrenching her arm from Hagan’s grasp, she put a bit of space between her and the guard. “Mr. Hemming…”

  The man’s gaze captured hers, his dark brown eyes seeming to lighten as she stared at him and his chest expanded when he took a deep breath. “You’ll call me Grant.” Then he zeroed in on the bodyguard. “Hagan?”

  “This is Rachel Riordan. She’s from downstairs and is pre-law. I figured she’d be as unbiased as they came.” The large man shrugged. “It’s not like she knows anything.”

  “Hey, I think I’m offended.” See, she could pretend ignorance of the supernatural with the best of them.

  Hagan flashed a grin in her direction before returning his attention to Mr. Hemm—Grant. “She’s feisty.”

  “She’s taken. And so are you.” Another gro
wl from Grant. No wonder the man had to resort to practically abducting her for help. He’d probably scared away everyone else. Except other wolves. If he was a wolf. “Leave us.”

  Plus, dude, taken? What the hell did he mean by that?

  Hagan stiffened beside her. “Alph—Boss, I haven’t checked her for weapons. Give me five minutes—”

  She cut him off. “Um, I promise not to kill him? All I’ve got is a Bic pen.” She dug in her pocket and presented it to the larger man. “See? I’m harmless.”

  “See? She’s harmless.” The deep voice drew her attention back to Grant as well as that wide, toothy smile. My, what big teeth you have. Maybe he just had a twisted dentist. “Go.”

  That single word had Hagan retreating and disappearing behind the heavy wood doors, shutting out the rest of the world…and shutting her in with Grant Hemming.

  Rachel remained frozen near the entry, heart thumping against her ribcage as she imagined the reasons behind the summons. Okay, it couldn’t be horrible. The man wouldn’t fire her for being pre-law. Then again, she was more ex-pre-law than anything. After her parents’ death…

  And, please, dear God, don’t let it be her witch-factor. Great Aunt Petunia had warned her about wolves (jury was still out on his werewolf-y status) and witches and…

  She’d said no one could sniff out her witch-tastic-ness. She prayed the old woman had been telling the truth.

  Silence encompassed the room and she kept her attention trained on the company’s president, the man no longer intent on her, but rather, the papers on his desk. His inattention gave her the opportunity to observe him, drink in his features, the lines of his body and the air of power that surrounded him.

  Every woman in the company, married or not, had the hots for Grant Hemming, billionaire non-playboy and fierce businessman. There’d never been a woman attached to the man’s name, leaving many to speculate that he was either extremely picky…or gay.

  Rachel prayed for picky since hey, if he were gay, it’d ruin her most satisfying nighttime fantasies.

  Seconds passed, her heart rate slowing with every tick of the clock until she finally felt normal. Then he looked at her, stared with those dark amber eyes and it felt as if he’d delved into her soul.